


there is light in my lady’s house

by demiromcom (mayerwien)



Category: Original Work, Sneedronningen | The Snow Queen - Hans Christian Andersen
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Drabble, F/F, Future Fic, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 22:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15011117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/pseuds/demiromcom
Summary: “You’ve grown,” the robber queen remarks. Slowly, she rises from her seat on the dais and descends the steps to meet her, this ghost from her childhood. “The last time I saw you, I could have snapped you in half with my bare hands, like a twig.”“And you,” Gerda replies with a smile, “are not so wild, now.”





	there is light in my lady’s house

**Author's Note:**

> Post-"The Snow Queen" fic. I can't believe Gerda/Robber Girl is actually a legit AO3 tag; that makes me so happy to know. Title from "My Lady's House" by Iron & Wine.
> 
> This is a thank-you drabble for my astonishing Granny Isa—because her brand is “fairytales and myths but make them gay girls,” and that is a Good Brand.

When the robber queen heard the knock on the castle door, and the boy at his post drew back the bolt—she had expected maybe an unwitting lost traveler, or a merchant come to offer gifts to curry her favor. Not this—not the woman standing before her, shoulders squared and chin raised fearlessly, with the golden curls that once cascaded down her shoulders now cropped short about her head. Fifteen years have passed, and yet the robber queen would know this woman anywhere. It’s those eyes of hers, pale and blue and shining with determination.

“You’ve grown,” the robber queen remarks. Slowly, she rises from her seat on the dais and descends the steps to meet her, this ghost from her childhood. “The last time I saw you, I could have snapped you in half with my bare hands, like a twig.”

“And you,” Gerda replies with a smile, “are not so wild, now.” She looks about the grand hall, at the windows opened wide to the warm summer evening and the intricate tapestries that hang between them; at the smooth dark stone that gleams in the light from the fire, and the glossy-feathered hawks roosting in the rafters that cross the high ceiling. “This place, too, looks kinder than I remember it,” she adds. “You’ve done well for yourselves here.”

If anyone else were to make such impertinent remarks, the robber queen would not hesitate to take her knife from her belt and slit open their throat. But she merely cocks her head and smiles, showing all her teeth. “Don’t presume we came by this life honestly,” she says. “However civilized our house may appear, we are wicked folk still. And I the most wicked of them all; is that not so, brothers?” she calls to the other robbers, who roar in agreement.

The robber queen laughs, and slings her arm around Gerda’s shoulders. “Come,” she says. “You shall dine with us tonight. At the head of the table, with me.”

After the pheasant and rabbit are served, and the men have begun bellowing their drinking songs, Gerda wipes her fingers on the tablecloth and turns to the robber queen. All throughout supper she was a perfect guest, using her knife and eating with her hands as they did. And still there was something impossibly delicate about her movements—not as though she’s trying very hard, but just because grace is in her blood. She is a flower among weeds here, the robber queen thinks.

“I remember when I first saw you, I assumed you were a princess,” the robber queen tells her, grinning and resting her elbow on the table. Plucking the bones off the side of her plate, she tosses them to the wolfhounds at her feet. “But when you told me about your quest, I realized you were just an ordinary heroine. Tell me, how is that boy you were so eager to rescue?”

“Kay is still my dearest friend,” Gerda says with a fond look on her face, and the unashamed warmth of it suddenly makes the robber queen want to stick her knife into the table and gouge out a chunk of wood. But then Gerda says, “He married last spring. He is a carpenter in our village, and his wife is expecting a child.”

“Ah. And yourself?” The robber queen looks Gerda up and down. “Married? Widowed? Or are you simply a troublemaker, like me?”

Gerda laughs. “None of those. I live in the house next to Kay’s still, and I grow flowers. It’s a quiet life, but I’m—well, I want for nothing.” There’s something in her voice that makes the robber queen want to ask a question, but then Gerda asks, “You were riding to the north, weren’t you, when we parted ways? I thought for certain you would find adventures there, and never return to this place.”

“Oh, I found adventures, all right,” chuckles the robber queen. “I got taken on as a cabin girl on a pirate ship, which was glorious. We sailed to Morocco, where they grow figs as big as your hand and the water tastes like wine, and we pillaged and feasted to our hearts’ content. Three years later I came home with arm muscles like ropes and a sack full of treasure. My dear old mother was delighted, after she tried to box my ears for running away. But I was taller than her by then, so I boxed hers instead.” Gerda laughs too, the robber queen notes with approval.

“Listen,” the robber queen says, realizing something. “I never told you my name, but it’s—“

“Birte. I know,” Gerda says, smiling when her expression shows surprise, for it’s been a long time since anyone’s addressed her as anything other than _my queen._ “I heard the others call you by it, all those years ago.”

“You remembered,” Birte says in wonder.

“I remember many things,” Gerda answers. And Birte wonders if she is thinking of the bed they shared that night when they were children, the carpet in the corner amidst heaps of straw and dove feathers. How they had wrapped their arms around each other, face to face, to stay warm; their breaths mingling as they drifted off to sleep.

Birte’s fingers curl into the tablecloth. “Why are you here?” she asks.

Gerda blinks. “You saved my life. You were kind to me, in your own way, and then you let me go. That has stayed with me all these years, and I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for it. So I…came to find you.”

“You thought I was long gone,” Birte reminds her.

Gerda tilts her head. “I hoped you came back,” she says.

Birte glances away quickly. “You made an interesting pet back then, that’s all,” she says, shrugging. “When it was clear you couldn’t be a loyal one, with your heart so set on saving that friend of yours, I turned you loose. A dog is no good to me if it wants to chase squirrels instead of deer.”

“Am I a dog to you, then, Birte?” Gerda asks, still smiling.

“Oh, no,” Birte says. “You’re not the type that would put up with belonging to somebody; I can see that now. Maybe you were then, but not anymore.”

“Well. Adventures do change you,” Gerda says simply, and looking back at her, Birte can see in the firelight the lines on Gerda’s forehead, and at the corners of her eyes and mouth. The things stupid people do for love, Birte thinks—how they can travel to the very ends of the earth, and the ones they love can still never know, just how much it cost. “I think we've both learned that well.”

Birte does not answer. Outside the window, leaves are blowing in a warm wind, into the velvety depths of the dark forest beyond. “It was a bitter winter that year, when we met,” she remarks.

“And now it is summer,” Gerda murmurs—and then she hesitates. “Speaking of which, I noticed—you have a bare patch of earth just inside the gate,” she says casually, and by the look on her face Birte can tell she’s wanted to bring it up all night, but she’s trying to sound as though she only thought of it now. “It’s a pity to leave it like that, you know.”

“Huh. If you’re suggesting I start a vegetable garden, you’re crazier than you were as a girl.”

“Well, no, I was more suggesting _…I_ could start something for you.”

Birte stares then, and perhaps it’s the fire, but Gerda’s cheeks seem rosier. “As long as you don’t plant me any flowers,” Birte warns her finally. “I hate flowers. They’ll do nothing but stink up the place.”

Gerda smiles and lays her fingers gently over Birte’s hand. “I’ll grow you some other plant, then,” she says lightly. “Something with thorns.”

“Or poison,” Birte says—but she smirks back, and doesn’t pull her hand away.


End file.
